Falling
by Alstroe
Summary: "Goodbye, John." A series of glimpses into Sherlock and John's lives immediately post-Reichenbach. Some foul language.


...BBC Sherlock, what are you doing to my heart.

* * *

><p>"Goodbye, John."<p>

"No." John Watson shakes his head, because that's _not fucking correct._ Sherlock is not allowed to do this to him. He is not allowed to leave him.

But then Sherlock just falls and John's running, pushing his medical knowledge down and making room for terrible, painful hope.

John gets knocked down, but he gets back up and runs more and more because God, this _can't_ be happening. It's not happening. And he reaches Sherlock, and he sees those cold eyes and John can't take it because he takes Sherlock's wrist and his pulse is gone.

John falls apart.

The paramedics rush Sherlock away and John is alone. He shakes his head, trying to figure out what just happened, and his leg buckles. John falls onto the pavement, into that slick pool of blood- Sherlock's precious blood- and cries, just bloody cries. People walk by him. No one spares him a second glance.

By the time John gets back to Baker Street- not 'home' anymore- he is barely able to walk and covered in blood. He opens the door and Mrs. Hudson's there, eyes wide with tears. She clutches a handkerchief in her hand and exclaims over the state John's in. John can hear the telly on in the next room, and tries to look, hears something about a detective, but Mrs. Hudson is hurrying him up the stairs, away from the truth.

"Sherlock?" he asks, and he's vaguely aware he's probably in shock.

She just presses her handkerchief to her lips and shakes her head.

* * *

><p>Everything hurts. Every bone, muscle, ligament is sore. But he is alive, and Moriarty is dead. His <em>friends<em> are alive. That is all that matters, now. Sherlock blinks into the light, and Molly's there, gazing at him. Sherlock blinks and sits up.

"It worked," Molly says, in awe. She reaches a hand out to him, but he turns away.

"They're safe?"

He sees Molly's face fall a bit, and he thinks of what John would say in this situation. Sherlock barks out a laugh. John is too ordinary, too gloriously ordinary to be in this _situation_. And then he feels like crying, but instead he focuses on Molly's worried face.

"Thank you," he says, and for once, he means it. He kisses both of her cheeks. Molly looks down for a moment, then hits a button on the television remote.

The screen comes to life. It takes a moment for Sherlock to realize it, but the footage is of St. Bart's. A security camera across the street caught the end of the drama. The news stations edited out the last bit of Sherlock's fall, but the footage shows 'his' bloody body lying on the pavement. Sherlock turns to Molly in inquiry for a moment, but she only gestures back towards the telly.

His breath catches in his throat.

Someone's running across the street. He is hit by a cyclist but he gets back up and runs to the body. He fights to get to the body, but it seems as soon as he gets close the paramedics are rushing the body away. The shot cuts off soon after that, but not too soon that Sherlock misses the man's broken posture or his own fall to the pavement.

Sherlock notices his hand shaking.

"John," he breathes. "He's okay." But his mind starts whizzing, the definition of okay: many uses of the same word, all meaning all right, under control, and John wasn't under control. He wasn't all right. Sherlock chose to ignore this for the time being, face stretching into an awkward smile.

Molly smiles too, but hers is tinged with regret.

Sherlock doesn't understand, but the hand pat she gives him before walking out of the morgue has an air of finality that finally reaches him.

"Molly, I really do appreciate your help."

She pauses a moment.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

Then she's running out the door. Sherlock curls in on himself, pulling up his legs onto his chair and lacing his fingers together under his chin. They both know now that he will never love her, not if he doesn't after this, but a tiny part of Sherlock stills wishes she would have stayed. He silences this sentiment, and sits there alone in the morgue, listening to the sound of his breathing.

* * *

><p>John wakes up.<p>

That is his first mistake.

For a few blissful minutes, John remembers nothing. Feels nothing. But then he wonders what case Sherlock will drag him on today, and it hits him. He can't breathe, has to remember how to. He won't cry. He has promised himself this. So John sits up and gets out of bed.

He puts on a coat and walks out the door of 221B Baker Street. John doesn't look back.

He's not sure where he's walking, but John is going somewhere. He only feels a dull surprise when he ends up outside of Sarah's apartment. It takes him a moment to decide, but he knocks.

She opens the door.

"John."

"Sarah, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry-" dammit, he said he wouldn't cry- "but I need a place to stay for a few days. Please?"

She nods, not daring to say anything. He steps in the door.

"John, I'm-"

"Thank you for letting me stay here." He can't accept condolences, yet. His lips are tense and his face is paper-white.

Sarah seems as if she understands, and she nods again. The pair is silent, and John can hear the tinny voice of a reporter filtering in from the next room.

Sarah's eyes widen and John swallows hard.

"Let me go turn that off…" She turns to run into the room, but John stops her with a hand.

"No," he says, choking on the word.

He walks past her and looks at the television.

"We are told that the funeral of Sherlock Holmes will be a private one, held sometime in the next two days," the reporter says, finishing her story.

John starts laughing and suddenly can't stop. Sarah is there, watching with worried eyes and rubbing his back.

"It's just," he chokes out. "It's just like Mycroft, the bastard, to not tell me about my best friend's funeral."

* * *

><p>Sherlock is scared.<p>

What if- what if that footage was altered, by Mycroft, or by Moriarty and John isn't-?

What if Moriarty is still alive?

What if the sniper kills John anyway?

What if- what if- John…John…

Sherlock needs John (and Lestrade and Molly and Mrs. Hudson and Donovan, even fucking Anderson) to be safe. He can't remember when that became a physical need, but it is, now.

So he stays out of sight, and some days he gets on trains. Others he send texts, telling people things like "I need your help" and "_Please._"

Sherlock is scared that he loves them so much.

* * *

><p>John goes down to his grave the day after the funeral. John couldn't go and shake hands and accept condolences through gritted teeth and see Mycroft because it's taking all of John's willpower to not kill Mycroft even when he's not in the same room, British government be damned. He is glad when Mrs. Hudson leaves. It's just him and Sherlock's bones now.<p>

John says his part, turns to leave. But then something raw wells up inside him and he's spitting his deepest wishes at the grave.

"Please don't be dead, for me," and John's crying. He's crying for the first time since that terrible day when Sherlock fell, and it hurts so much, everything hurts. But John pulls himself together and leaves the grave.

His limp is back.

* * *

><p>Sherlock watches his best friend at his grave. He sees John touch the marble hesitantly. He hears the words that were scripted. John turns to leave, but then he turns around and faces the grave again, saying things like "Don't be dead, please come back," and Sherlock's heart breaks again and again.<p>

"Oh, John. I wish I could."


End file.
